Feeling Whole
by LinkinPark X
Summary: Oneshot. John has been wandering the streets late at night for fear of Sherlock. He has deduced that he has murdered. Could John be his next victim? Or will he kill Sherlock? Very very very slight JohnLock at the end.


**~Hey ya'll~**  
**LinkinPark here. It's been a while since I've uploaded anything. For those reading my other story, I apologize, but I've fallen out of I.N.K. It's probably on Hiatus. I needed to get this out of my system, it's been on my phone for AGES! So, enjoy, I don't own Sherlock© but I do own Damien Richards~**

**~oOo~**

John rubbed his eyes slowly and carefully as he plodded down the streets of London at witch's hour. The fog was thick enough to make John have to keep his eyes peeled in case he walked into a lamp post.

Damien Richards.

_Sir _Damien Richards.

Sherlock's _first _assistant.

John's mind was racing when he had heard of this Damien. Sherlock had told him a good three weeks ago and that this fellow had decided the job was too much for him. John knew not to doubt him.

But he did anyway.

The doubt crept up on him like a crocodile.

Oh, sure, Damien given up the job. Left along with his head, arms and legs. He'd been mutilated.

This wasn't just a hunch of John's though. He had researched him about 2 weeks ago. Damien was found dead at number 666 in Mayfair Street. Murdered, yes, so clear even Anderson could figure it out. But the more interesting matter was the fact that _he _didn't investigate.

The great, brilliant and intelligent Sherlock Holmes-whose boredom stretched far enough he would solve the case of Bluebell, the glow-in-the-dark rabbit- ignored his friends' death. If Sherlock even considered Damien a friend.

To John that seemed highly unlikely. But it was true. Why was he so hung up over this? Jealousy? He scoffed at himself. He was concerned for Sherlock's wellbeing. But his sense of deduction had been getting better over the months.

John turned the corner, like he had done the previous night. And the night before that for the whole week, trying to piece it all together. Why did he keep coming outside at the dead of night? Realisation hit him like a sack of bricks.

He was scared.

He, Doctor John Watson, was scared of being Sherlock's next victim.

It was because Sherlock was the murderer in John's eyes. Richards was hacked up at around midnight-which is why John was roaming the streets. He knew he shouldn't have doubted him anyway but he did. His gut instinct was overpowering his brain.

He returned to the flat around 2am. Careful not to wake Mrs Hudson, he practically tip-toed up the stairs- but it didn't stop them from creaking ominously. He got to the door to the flat and fumbled with the key in the lock

_*click*_

He quietly shut the door, not bothering to lock it back up again and swiftly into his room.

_*click*_

'I was wondering when you was coming back."

John jumped out of his skin at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He stumbled back into the dresser and sent a stern glare his way.

He was sat on his bed, lotus position and his usual prayer style hands under his chin looking up at John, giving him a quizzical glance.

'Wha…what the HELL are you doing in my room? At this time in the morning too?'

'Well?'

'Well what?'

'You didn't answer my question. I am not repeating myself for you, Watson.' He gave John one of those "you're really stupid and I'm smarter than you" looks.

Said confused man raised an eyebrow.

'Could you please leave? I'm tired and don't have the patience for this.'

Sherlock didn't leave. John expected as much. He sighed and collected a pair of jogging bottoms and a grey t-shirt from the top drawer of his dresser and left for the bathroom to get changed.

About 20 minutes later, when he thought he might have gone by now, John went back into his room.

Sherlock was still in his bedroom, but instead was sat on the leather chair they had recently moved in there.

'Okay, what is it? What's wrong?'

Sherlock sighed through his mouth and gave John a withering look.

'You're going to answer me. How long have you been doing this?'

John nodded his head and began to suck in breath to answer.

'…Wait! Wait I know… The bags under your eyes are purple, almost black, which to me suggests about… one and a half weeks of restless sleep? Your coat is muddy; it rained approximately four hours ago. I know because I counted the amount of times the thunder rumbled,' Sherlock grinned but it quickly turned into a poker face 'so you've been out in London for about two hours. Don't bother with the praise; I know I'm a genius. The question is…' He stood up in front of John (whose face had turned as white as the bed sheets) and held his face in both his hands.

'Why, John Watson, why….' He stared intently at the doctor's face; at his ears, his nose, his lips and his eyes. Those milky chocolate eyes of his.

All the while John was getting redder and redder.

'Damien Richards' Sherlock whispered quietly.

Eyes widened in surprise, John took steps back to his bedside table and opened the drawer to retrieve his loaded gun. He pointed at Sherlock as he spoke;

'You murdered him. I know you must have because you didn't investigate it. Whenever there's a case not matter how small. I mean, look at Bluebell the rabbit for God's sake! You wouldn't just NOT do anything. He was your friend, Sherlock! You could have found the murderer… But you couldn't if it was you, it_ was_ you. I know it.'

Sherlock looked unfazed at the gun pointed at his head and merely chuckled.

'Do you want the truth? I didn't kill Richards. I was out solving a case when he was murdered' he choked out the last word and blinked multiple times before starting again,' when I came back to the flat we was sharing, I found his arms on my armchair. His legs in the bath tub and his body…'

Sherlock stared at the ground, sniffing slightly. 'His body was in my bed, John. I only found it when I was going to sleep.'

John looked horrified. He'd just blamed Sherlock for the death of his friend. His _best _friend by the sound of it. He dropped the gun and caught Sherlock just as he fell to his knees.

'Oh God, John, I've never cried. Is this crying?' John dabbed at the wet that was falling down the other man's face at alarming speed. Sherlock looked over and locked eyes with him.

'Sherl…Sherlock I'm sorry. So _so_ sorry. I really didn't know, I was just trying to be clever and brilliant like you I guess…'the ex-army man glanced back at the gun. It looked very tempting right now. So shiny, smooth and clean... Who knew something so beautiful could be oh-so deadly?

The war doctor went to pick it up when Sherlock stopped him by dragging him to the leather armchair and sat him in it. The sociopath held his arms down and looked down on him.

'John Watson don't you EVER think about that. I can't let another friend die in my hands.'

'Sherlock, please let go of me.'

He did as he was told. As John expected. He grabbed the taller man by the waist and hugged him fiercely. What Sherlock did not expect at all.

It felt so strange. So bizarre and alien. Sherlock looked down at the man-whose face was deep in his purple button up shirt- and took mere seconds for him to register what he was doing. The sociopath wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and buried in his neck. And for the first time in a long while...

Sherlock Holmes felt whole.

**~oOo~**  
**Tell me what you think, I know it's short but this took me about two and a half hours to write. Reviews are appreciated, so, yeah. Flames as well, I laugh at them (/~.~)/  
LinkinPark X**


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